


cut him off, cedar

by lockjawed



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: A Made Up Away Game, Detroit Red Wings, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mentions of Past Tyler/Robby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21968722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockjawed/pseuds/lockjawed
Summary: Robby has—traditions.
Relationships: Dylan Larkin/Robby Fabbri
Comments: 7
Kudos: 62





	cut him off, cedar

**Author's Note:**

> i got the home/away pattern mixed up in my head and thought the capitals + islanders games were in washington/new york for some reason even though i was literally in attendance for one so now just pretend there is an away game between the islanders loss + the pens game that saturday
> 
> quick warning for undeniably unsafe sex but well sometimes thats just life babey

Tyler looks like the climactic frame of some horror movie, standing with his back against the light of the hotel bathroom, toothpaste foaming at the corners of his mouth, shirtless with his hair half-wet. “Can you take this back to Larkin?” he says, voice garbled. He tosses a travel-size bottle of crest all-white across the room at Robby.

Robby catches it mid-air in one hand, standing up from over his duffel bag. “Why’d you borrow this? I brought toothpaste. Coulda just shared.”

Tyler just shrugs. “You hate when I go through your bag, man.”

Fair enough. Tyler always fucks up the neat folding arrangement of Robby’s clothes and doesn’t even pretend to fix it, leaving everything wrinkly and full of creases. Once on Guelph Storm, he left a bottle of body wash open in Robby’s carry-on, which leaked slowly over several rolls of ace bandages for the entire flight to Ontario. Robby frowns, tired from the day of travel. “Take it back yourself,” he complains.

“No way,” says Tyler. He shuffles back onto the tiles to spit in the sink. “He’s all—moody right now, or whatever. I always say the wrong thing.”

Robby sighs through his nose. “Fine,” he says. He hasn’t known Dylan very long—not even a month, really—but even he can’t pretend he hasn’t noticed the guy’s perpetual martyr complex, always finding some way to shoulder the whole loss himself. Always looking at the floor when the journalists come and talk to him. The longer the losing streak goes on, the weirder he gets.

Robby steps out into the hallway, then comes back in to put some shoes on, stealing Tuzzi’s slides that are still laying by the doorway. “I’ll be right back,” Robby says, peeking quickly into the bathroom and catching an eyeful of Tyler’s bare ass, half bent over to pull sweatpants on. 

“Dude,” Robby complains.

Tyler just glances backwards at him and cackles. “Nothing you haven’t seen before,” he replies, straightening up and tying the drawstrings at his waistband. He’s not wrong—not for a couple reasons. For one thing, there’s no way to play in the NHL without quickly becoming alarmingly underwhelmed by male nudity, and for another, Robby’s messed around with Tyler before, back when they were still teenagers and Tyler’s hair was shorter but still long enough to pull on. It gave him a sort of fixation; wanting to find out what all his teammates were like in bed, and then getting to reap the benefits of lording the information over them forever. Getting fucked by Tyler was exhausting and a little sleazy, which Robby still thinks is a fairly accurate read, and since then, a good lay has been his litmus test for his teammates. He’s been making Tyler flush and threaten him by imitating his o-face for years. He had his fun on the Blues, but on the Wings, it’s impossible to get anywhere. At least with the losing streak in his way. Hard to be in the mood when every week is just loss after loss and chilly hotel rooms with the A/C on too high, since half these weather acclimated freaks keep the air on in the wintertime. 

Robby makes a face as Tyler wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m taking your shoes,” he says, and lets the door close behind him.

The hotel is carpeted entirely in an outdated dark green geometric pattern that starts looking like an optical illusion the longer Robby stares at it. He rolls through the room numbers in his head, turning the corner. The team had silently agreed to keep letting Dylan have the inevitable single that comes from traveling in odd numbers, for a lot of reasons that are harder to explain than just admitting nobody knows what the hell to say to him. He’s gone from the all-star team to playing on the laughing stock of the entire league in just a few years. Shit sucks, no doubt about it. Sometimes Robby feels like they sort of have the same problem, though it’d probably be pretty shitty to complain about being booted off the Cup team to a guy who’s never come close to it in the first place.

Robby reaches Dylan’s door. He reads the room number twice and knocks. Then again, louder, because maybe Dylan is showering again for some reason or sleeping and won’t hear it, and then starts wondering if he could just shove the toothpaste under the gap beneath the door and act like Tuzzi did it, or—

“Uh,” Dylan says, dragging the door open. “Hey. What’s up?”

He looks surprised to see Robby, which annoys him until he remembers that just because they see each other every doesn’t mean they’re actually close. Dylan’s already settled down for the night it seems; sweatpants, old t-shirt with a split torn into the collar, hair damp and slightly curly, the pattern fighting against his short length. 

“Toothpaste,” Robby says plainly, holding the tube up.

Dylan makes a face. “You forgot some too?”

“No, Tuzzi’s just an idiot. Way too naked right now to leave the room.” A half-truth.

That at least makes Dylan crack a smile. He takes the tube. “Never stopped him before.”

Dylan stands their waiting with the toothpaste caught between his palm and the edge of the door, unable to tell if Robby is about to leave or start saying something else. 

Robby thinks of the goal he scored last night, Dylan’s pass sliding clean as hell into the crease, the skull-rattling hit of their helmets when they celebrated against the boards. An open net has always made Robby’s gut swoop, and Dylan’s energy on the ice lately is oppressive, lays across the line like a jacket that wears its owner and not the other way around. Off ice, Dylan’s normal enough; friendly, a little physical, but Robby just cannot get a good read on him whatsoever. 

The doorway is smaller than the goal, dimension-wise, and the foot of the queen size hotel bed is definitely wider. Robby’s not a mathematician, but he figures it averages out.

“You eat dinner?” Robby tries.

“Duh,” Dylan says, frowning a little. “Didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Robby says. Not his best move. If he’d said no, they’d’ve had to go down to the hotel’s combination bar and restaurant, anyway. Trying to get room service would probably have been too forward.

He realizes it’s stupid to be thinking so hard about this. Sex is the simplest thing in the world. Like, sit on a bed with someone long enough, and one of you’s probably going to end up getting fucked. It’s just that human nature shit, back to the basics. It’s the principle of overtime; someone’s gotta score eventually. 

“Wanna order dessert from room service and, like, watch a movie or something? Tuzzi’s probably out by now, and I slept on the plane.” Another lie mixed in with some truth. Tyler’s probably playing fuckin’ piano tiles at superhuman speeds right now, but Robby _ is _wide awake and frankly a little wired. “I uh, I heard you were a night owl from a couple of the boys, so.”

Dylan lifts an eyebrow skeptically, but one corner of his mouth tugs up a little into a half smile. “Sure,” he says. He steps against the door to let Robby past. Dylan’s room is exactly the same set up as all the others; a short hall with the bathroom and a small closet, opening up to the square space with the bed, a dark mahogany desk, and a TV. His luggage is open on the floor, the blankets rumpled, a laptop sitting near the pillows still lit up, an inch away from being closed. “Just don’t tell Val we’re eating that much sugar. He’s seriously into our nutrition plan and I’d feel bad if he knew I was breaking it.”

Room service takes forever.

They manage to get the TV on, but the remote has way too many buttons plus it’s own screen to contend with, and it gets stuck on mute somehow, then stops responding. Dylan pulls up HBO on his laptop while the television silently loops the weather channel in the background—expect several inches of snow overnight and ice on the roads in the morning—and tries to make Robby pick something until they just settle on a random Game of Thrones episode several seasons in.

Robby’s never watched it, so Dylan spends the first fifteen minutes trying to explain the context of the current plot line, not doing a very great job at it, and then their dessert arrives. Dylan gets the door and lets the hotel staffer past him, who leaves behind an elaborate looking gold plated cart that seems pretty excessive for one tiny cake.

Like, it’s great cake. When Dylan splits it with the round of a spoon, it does the whole instagram worthy oozing thing, and it’s actually still hot. Robby’s not even big on chocolate, but lava cake is never not good. He still doesn’t think they needed the fancy cart, though.

Dylan has the manners to not talk with his mouth full, so he’s mostly quiet as the scenery on the screen shifts and changes. Robby pays mild attention, but can only follow the story loosely as the names all start overlapping. Mostly, it makes him wonder what Dylan would look like with his hair grown out. 

Sitting up against the headboard like this is starting to make his back ache, and the bottom of the laptop is starting to get so hot it’s burning him, rested atop Robby’s right and Dylan’s left knee. And maybe this is a weird activity to be doing, but even if it doesn’t end up how Robby’s aiming for—if he’s gonna be on this team, he might as well make some friends. He feels like at least some kind of message is probably getting across via the fact that they’re sharing a dessert off the same plate, but who knows. The guy who rolled the cart into the room definitely gave them a weird look. With the huge duffel bag and the laptop at the end of the bed, maybe it looked like they were about to do some niche webcam porn or something. Whatever.

Dylan lets him have the last bite of cake, and the shows end-credits start rolling. 

“You want water?” Dylan says, sliding off the edge of the bed.

“Nah.”

In the bathroom, Dylan gets himself a glass while humming the Game of Thrones theme song mega off key, then downs it with alarming speed in the hallway. Robby pauses HBO before the next episode queues up, and Dylan’s phone chimes, vibrating unpleasantly against the desk. 

He unplugs it and scans it over, nearly laughing at whatever notification he gets and then immediately trying to hide it, blankening his face.

“What,” Robby says. “Who is it?”

Dylan chews on the inside of his cheek. “Tyler,” he says simply, starting to type back.

“What’d he say?”

Dylan bites his smile down again. “Nothing.”

“You’re shit at lying,” Robby laughs. “Seriously, what?”

Dylan hold the phone against his chest. “Nothing!” he says again.

Robby crawls to the end of the bed, closing the laptop on his way. “Let me see,” he pries, grinning. 

“No way.”

Robby swings his feet down to the floor and stands. “Thought you said it was nothing,” he replies, lifting an eyebrow.

“A private nothing,” Dylan says.

“Jackass. Show me,” Robby complains, lighthearted. He waits a half second and reaches for the phone, but Dylan slaps his hand away and grabs him by the wrist, smiling. Robby grabs a wrist back, twisting Dylan’s hand around to show him the screen, and Dylan’s not fighting him at all.

Robby stares at Dylan’s phone. _ Is fabby still with u, _ the first text says. Then, _ i shldnt have said anything when yzerman told us abt the trade, u guys are boning rn arent u. _ The typing bubble appears, quickly replaced by _ and he took my fuckin shoes. _

Dylan starts cracking up, watching his face. Robby lets him go. “You asked,” he says, clicking the power button with his thumb. “Tyler said it, not me.”

“He _ told _ you?” Robby finally blurts, incredulous.

Dylan laughs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Bert can’t keep a secret to save his life,” he says, leaning against the edge of the desk. “You know that, right?”

“And you just—let me in here?”

“I don’t know!” Dylan says. He has his arms crossed tight across his chest, but he’s smiling, eyes crinkling up. “It’s been a month. I figured if you hadn’t started already you weren’t starting at all. And if you _ were _ starting, then...well.”

Robby swallows. He’s got no grip on this situation at all, feels his upper hand shifting, turning itself over. “Then well, what?”

“Then,” Dylan says slowly, considering. “I should let you. Right?”

Robby blinks. “Right?”

Dylan uncrosses his arms, then his ankles, and grips the edge of the desk behind him. His head tips slightly sideways. “Right,” he says.

Robby backtracks on instinct, for the courtesy of it. “You don’t have to—”

“Robby,” Dylan says. Jesus. Robby hates when Dylan does that, switching back to first names off the ice. Nicknames on the Wings get so derivative that Robby won’t be shocked when someone just abandons Double-A and starts calling Andreas fuckin’ duracell, but even if all Robby’s got right now is Fabby, it throws him off kilter. Dylan rubs at the back of his neck, then up through his hair, like if it was longer he’d be dragging it all in front of his eyes. “Lately, I’ve been a little—” he eyes Robby, making a face. “Are you seriously going to make me say this?”

Dylan is—frustrated. That much is clear. When the buzzer went off to solidify their loss against the Capitals, he shattered his stick against the goal post of their empty net, and now half the media is convinced he tried to kill Ovechkin. _ Ovechkin _. Like Dylan is that stupid. And now he’s gonna be fielding questions about it for the next two weeks, all of them boring, asked with a kind of empty stupidity, a might-as-well-ness to them, as if Dylan’s the first hockey player to have broken a stick in anger before. Arguably worse, Ovi’s probably gonna give him a concussion in their next matchup, or break his nose against the boards, turn him into another injured reserve they really can’t afford right now. Between practice and games and getting chewed out by Blashill, there’s not much time do anything else. It’s not hard to image Dylan being a little sour in a few other areas right now as well.

“Make you say what?” Robby says, enjoying himself again.

Dylan’s mouth makes a flat line as he sighs through his nose. “Look, like. Everybody knows, if you haven’t gotten at least a handy from a teammate at some point in your life, it’s probably because you’re an asshole and they all hate you. So, I’m not—weirded out. If it makes you feel better, you can think of this as a favor to me. I’ll think of it as flattery.”

“A favor,” Robby repeats.

“Fabbri,” Dylan says, getting fidgety and pink and irritated. “Either quit playing dumb or beat it. Please.”

Robby smiles. Neat row of teeth. “Alright,” he says. “You asked.” Like that matters. Like Robby isn’t the one who walked in here and started it. The air conditioner whirs to life, rattling.

Robby steps into Dylan, chin tilted up, leveling his gaze. It kind of gets on his nerves, being comparatively short in terms of professional hockey, when normally he’s perfectly average, but Dylan’s only got three inches on him, and his posture right now is slouched and relaxed. It’s eye to eye shit. He gives Dylan the moment to pull away, but he doesn’t. Tension builds like a bulwark; something to be climbed over. Nearly too good to break.

Robby watches Dylan’s lashes go low as he leans in, pressing their mouths together. He puts two hands to Dylan’s ribcage, presses his fingers between each curved bone, harder than necessary. Dylan lets himself be pushed against the desk for a few seconds, back bowing over its flat top. There’s nothing chaste or shy about it; Robby opens his mouth, feels Dylan sigh through his nose, allows the proximity when Dylan’s arms slip around to his shoulder blades, dragging him closer.

Dylan’s tongue slides behind his teeth, slightly ticklish. His shirt is thin as a sheet of paper, and feels like its been through the wash roughly six hundred times. Robby grabs Dylan’s ass, two-handed, forcing him to spread his legs a little as they press together. He kisses like someone from the suburbs, meaning growing up, his parents were home way too often for him to ever have the privacy to go any farther, meaning: he could probably do this for an hour, and he’s pretty good at it to boot. Dylan skims his hands up Robby’s neck to grip his face, thumbs beneath his eyes, fingers splayed along his jaw to his ears, tilting his head. Every time they break apart there’s a quiet, wet pop. It’s the kind of shit Robby’d think was gross if he saw someone else doing it, but all it does right now is turn him on.

Dylan walks him until the backs of Robby’s calves hit the foot of the bed, pushing him to lay flat on it. Dylan gets one knee up on the mattress for leverage, wedging the other between Robby’s own. His thigh is heavy when he lets his weight drop, feels like a pillar from fucking Olympus, the pressure dull but good enough to make Robby break the kiss, turn his head and breathe for a second. Dylan doesn’t falter. He shifts his weight on his elbows and goes for Robby’s neck. Robby catches a whiff of the cheap hotel shampoo still lingering in Dylan’s hair, sliding a hand up the back of Dylan’s head and holding him there.

Robby has this spot just under his jaw that he swears is somehow directly connected to the small of his back, feels like a nerve bullet shooting through him from a really fucking weird angle, and Dylan finds it immediately, quickly biting the skin there and mouthing over it. He must feel the way it makes Robby tense up, because he pulls back to stare down at him, eyes limpid but dark, then goes for it again.

Robby can’t say exactly how he pictured this going, but he’s pretty sure being halfway to a hickey and already hard as fuck like he’s fifteen again wasn’t it. He’s shorter than Dylan but he weighs near as much; it’s easy to roll them over and return the torture, nudging Dylan’s legs apart and slotting himself between them. Robby loses his shirt.

Dylan gets one foot up flat onto the bed, pressing his hips up into Robby’s. His sweatpants are riding down, revealing smooth skin centimeter by centimeter.

“Are you not wearing underwear?” Robby breathes.

Dylan gets a hand on Robby’s waist, urging him to grind forward. “Fuck off,” he says, distracted, staring down at Robby’s bare stomach, the faint outline of their dicks pressed together. “S’not like I planned this. I was gonna go to bed.”

Robby sits up, holding Dylan’s thighs over his own, weight on his knees. It’s the same feeling of being the last person in the locker room with his skates still on, bigger than he’s supposed to be. Dylan’s chest rises and falls as he breathes, his face brightly flushed, body solid as hell beneath him. Robby skids his palm along the line of Dylan’s cock, grinning when his leg jerks up, knee hitting him in the ribcage. 

Robby smiles, smug about it. “You gonna let me fuck you?” he says.

Dylan stretches out like he’s suddenly got the chills, avoiding Robby’s eye and looking at the headboard behind him, head tilted back. “Yeah,” he says quickly, “Yeah, yes, I just—”

“What,” Robby says, lifting an eyebrow lazily. 

Dylan squirms slightly, a tendon in his inner thigh bunching and releasing. “I don’t have any condoms on me. And, uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but neither do you. No—ah—lube, either.”

“D’you care?” Honest question.

Dylan shrugs, his heel digging into Robby’s back to increase the pressure. “Not really. Spit’s fine by me.”

That makes Robby go hot. “Your call,” he says. Robby’s fucked plenty of people without much by way of assistance before, and if Dylan says he can take it, then he can take it. Otherwise, some people are just perma-clenched, like, spiritually. Two kinds of people in this world, yadda yadda. 

Robby puts his palm to Dylan’s knee and presses it outwards, stretching the gracilis muscle. Dylan winces a little like it hurts but doesn’t resist him. 

“I can’t usually come from just that, though,” Dylan says, expression wide open. “I’d like it if you sucked me off.” 

Robby rolls his eyes. Dylan sounds exactly like he does on the ice; how he gets a little bossy but in a way that’s so polite you can’t actually say he is. He’ll just tell everyone what he wants to do, and then somehow it becomes your responsibility to help him do it or not, and honestly, who doesn’t wanna win the face off and send a long, saucy pass into the neutral zone that splits the defensemen and ends in the world’s cleanest breakaway? No one. So they help him, and Dylan gets what he wants. And afterwards, it feels like the whole thing was your great idea in the first place. Makes his brain melt.

Robby shoves Dylan's shirt up, palms skimming up his sides. He presses a wet kiss to the flat of Dylan's stomach, hooks his fingers into the elastic of the waistband digging into just below the hips. His mouth skims below Dylan's navel as he pulls the sweatpants down, his day and a half old stubble leaving the skin there red and irritated. He'll have beard burn from this tomorrow, have to hide it in the locker room, and Robby will be the one person that knows. He tries to leave Dylan’s sweats at his thighs knowing it will annoy him, but Dylan scowls and kicks them off all the way, flinging them onto the armchair sitting resolutely beneath the window. 

Robby circles two fingers at the base of Dylan’s cock and jerks him off lazily. “You sure you’re sure?” he asks.

Dylan goes up on one elbow to glare down at him. “Yeah,” he says, slightly wheezy. 

Like Robby said; sex isn’t all that complicated. He mouths at the head of Dylan’s dick but doesn’t stall very long on swallowing him down. He interlocks his arms with Dylan’s legs to hold him down. He goes mostly quiet, surprisingly, and Robby can feel how his muscles tense and relax as he tries not to make any noise.

“All the pharmacies in Detroit have their condoms and shit locked up,” Dylan says suddenly. “You have to like, ask the manager to get the key. And I hate doing that, so it wouldn’t be different even if we weren’t like 500 miles from home.”

Robby pops his mouth off Dylan’s dick and laughs. A bead of precome rolls hotly down over his thumb. “What,” he says. “You think the cashier at CVS is gonna recognize you, reverse engineer your dick size from whatever your buying, and—tweet it out to ESPN?”

“There a CVS on Warren where you have to press the customer service button, and wait for the system to announce over the PA that someone in the family planning section needs assistance. It’s mortifying. And seriously, like, what the hell is family pla—”

“Larkin,” Robby says flatly. He squeezes the base of Dylan’s dick tightly, makes him look down to meet his eye. “Do you ever shut up?” Honestly, Robby’s blowjob ego is getting a little hurt.

Dylan squirms at the grip, and Robby grins, lopsided, because he knows it hurts when he does this. “Sorry,” Dylan says. “I, uh—jesus Robby, let go—I’ll stop, I’ll stop.”

Robby lets go. Dylan drops his head back onto the comforter and shifts his hips as Robby licks a wet stripe up the underside of his cock.

Dylan knots a hand into Robby’s hair, tugging on it in no particular direction, blunt nails scratching against his undercut just below the crown of his head. Robby takes Dylan into his mouth, effort mild, his tongue pressed against the frenulum, catching on the ridge. He doesn’t bother trying to keep it from getting messy; he lets spit collect and slide down the shaft, groans a little when the tip hits the back of his throat. That finally gets Dylan to make a little noise, so Robby keeps doing it until Dylan has to pull him off by his hair completely. “Don't,” he says. “I can’t—twice.”

Robby goes back to kneeling again. He casts a colorless shadow across Dylan’s torso as he looms over him, pushing Dylan’s shirt up even higher, bunching it up at his clavicle.

Robby sticks two fingers into Dylan’s mouth. He flattens his tongue down, runs each fingerprint along his molars, lets saliva gather behind Dylan’s teeth. When he removes his fingers they’re shiny and marred with a few pink lines from the sharper edges of Dylan’s canines. 

He holds eye contact when he presses the first finger into Dylan’s ass, the pad of his thumb pressing into his perineum. Dylan groans but doesn’t touch himself, clenches down as Robby uses the stray spit from the blowjob to start pressing a second finger in alongside it.

Robby pushes at the back of Dylan’s knee, bending his leg up. He’s seen Larkin stretch and do about a million face-offs, seen him chatting with Val during warmups, both just sitting there with their helmets nearly touching their skates. The higher Dylan’s leg goes, the further up his skin Robby slides his hand, palm at the muscle of his calf to keep his leg straight.

“Knock it off,” Dylan says, voice tight.

“Sorry,” Robby says, not really meaning it, sliding his hand down to the back of Dylan’s thigh again. Dylan doesn’t move or push against him though, just bends his leg at the knee and leaves his foot on Robby’s shoulder. “Was just curious.”

Robby’s assumed he’s been banned from touching Dylan’s dick until further notice, and he doesn’t want to just sit there and stare while he fingers him open, so he leans down, weight on one forearm, and licks into his mouth. Dylan’s leg nearly goes up over his shoulder completely but falls to the side instead, pressing them together from groin to rib. Robby pulls his fingers out to the tips and slides them back into the knuckle harshly. Dylan groans against him and gets his arm around Robby’s neck like he wants him in a headlock, the kiss turning a little filthy and disorienting. Their foreheads press together.

Earlier, Dylan seemed like he would’ve been happy to just make out and not do much else for a while, so Robby indulges him, kissing insistently even when they’re almost too close to be doing much of anything.

“Three,” Dylan says against the side of his face, “You can—three.” 

Robby slides in his ring finger, feels how this one is the real stretch. He grins, delighted, when Dylan moans, then becomes too distracted to maintain the kiss. Robby licks up the line of his throat, tasting his sweat and a bitter trace of aftershave. It’s barely a minute before Dylan wedges his hand between them and pops the button on Robby’s jeans, messing with the fly.

Robby feels cold when he has to pull away to peel out of his pants, skin prickling with goosebumps, but the relief is payoff enough. He didn’t realize how much the zipper digging into his dick was hurting until he finally got it off, and all his desperation suddenly fell on him like a massive sheet of water.

Robby spreads his own precome down his shaft, then presses the head against Dylan’s asshole, pressing in slowly, a hand flat against Dylan’s stomach.

Robby bottoms out and tries not to move for a second. Dylan jerks like he wants to close his thighs but then they stay splayed wide open, and Robby can see his dick twitch and the muscles in his abdomen bunch, tightening up, one hand twisted into the pillowcase somewhere near the headboard, and it’s way too fucking much. He dares a glance at Dylan’s face and regrets it instantly; he’s flushed, cheeks pink and splotchy, eyebrows a little furrowed, tongue pressing harshly at the sides of his teeth, and it’ just like—

Robby’s pretty sure he had his hand over Tyler’s face the whole time he was riding him, because they both kept laughing, Tyler kept trying to bite his fingers off, and in the grand scheme of things, the whole thing was pretty fucking funny. Tyler wouldn’t meet his rhythm, never once planting his feet on the bed to grind up, and that was fine, ‘cause the whole point of fucking him was seeing just how far he’d take it, and well, that’s just Tyler. Lazy about everything except hockey. Cuts his own hair at home with old-ass craft scissors from the nineties.

“Jesus,” Dylan wheezes. Robby comes reeling back to reality; Dylan’s hands gripping at his biceps, how much his abs ache from holding his weight this long, scratchy sheets on his knees, Dylan’s lip with two red indents running in a line together from where he’s been biting it. 

It’s not like its been a while, but Robby can’t deny that few people can match the exact stamina and skill set of someone who plays professional hockey, except for, duh, other professional hockey players. Dylan’s lowest obliques tense and flex as he rolls his hips in Robby’s lap, trying to take him deeper. Robby grabs him by the hip bones, feeling them firm underneath the pads of his thumbs, and starts up a slow rhythm, none of that frantic shit.

Dylan picks one leg up and it feels like he’s about to full-on kick Robby in the head until he realizes Dylan’s just turning onto his side, or at least trying to with Robby’s cock still inside him. His shoulders are still near flat against the bed, hips turned like he’s doing an iron cross, knee bent, a properly formed ninety degrees, somehow still athletic even when someone’s fucking him. There’s a ghoulish bruise splattered up his ribcage and around to his back that stretches like a cut of canvas when he inhales. Dylan holds his leg out of the way, and Robby recognizes distantly that he’s still being told what to do, thinks it’s kind of hot how the power won’t settle.

Robby gets the sense that on a different night, this might be going the other way around. He’d wondered at it since he got traded to the Wings, because it was more fun than thinking about their record, and he’d made several guesses about Dylan and a handful of the other players. The team had gone out together after their win against Boston, because, fuck, they beat the _ Bruins _, and that was the first time Robby’d seen Dylan drunk. To be fair, it was among the first times he’d ever seen Dylan at all, but the contrast was still funny enough. Dylan had wanted a taste from everyone’s drink, and he had wanted to dance, but his line-mates only wanted to watch so they could make fun of him, and he was sort of passively hitting on everyone around him, Robby included.

And just being honest—it got Robby thinking. Dylan dressed so buttoned up and boring that it somehow had the opposite effect, made it almost impossible for Robby look at him and not think about him naked, and all night he had that glazed-over cow-eyed look to him, but it disappeared by the time they had to play Vegas, and then Robby was trying to figure out if he had just seen two sides of the same coin, or met Dylan on a weird day. 

Dylan was a little rough with Robby in their morning skate, but he smiled wide and elastic every time they got matched up in a face-off, close enough to count eyelashes. They were going tape to tape, coast to coast. Robby looked at him in the locker room and tried not to in the showers, filed it away when Dylan held his leg straight out in front of him to check the laces on his skate. Then the losing streak hit, and even that version of Dylan was gone—which was annoying, because Robby liked it best out of all the ones he’d seen so far. A little flashy, demanding but in a fun way.

Dylan shoves him back with his foot for real this time, heel hitting him directly in the solar plexus. Robby nearly falls on his ass, makes a weird noise at the surprise of pulling out. Dylan palms himself, then squeezes just below the head of his cock, all of it ruddy and flushed. His spine cracks as he turns out of the stretch. Robby grabs Dylan’s ankle and shoves it aside.

“What—” Robby starts, and then—

Dylan turns over. 

He doesn’t say anything, just twists, grabs Robby by the wrist and pulls him forward until he’s kneeling again. When Dylan lets go, he pushes his ass back, all the sheets wrinkled into a dozen rivers that lead to his weight on his hands and knees.

Robby presses on the small of Dylan’s back with the heel of his hand, sliding it up the divot of his spine. Dylan goes down to his elbows, then refuses any further. Robby gets the message and doesn’t waste much time. His cock slides back in easily. Dylan breathes out harshly and presses his face to his own shoulder, glancing backwards quickly before closing his eyes.

And—the position is familiar in a way that’s mostly funny, but it’s one thing to see a guy in like four layers of polyester and pads bent over, and entirely another to have your dick inside him while he’s doing it. Or at least, it should be funny, but Robby isn’t laughing. He feels like he’s swimming in molasses. Being crushed by pounds and pounds of weight. He places a hand on Dylan’s back to steady him, but doesn’t thrust forward. Doing this face to face felt weird enough, but somehow, this is worse. 

Most sex Robby’s had with his teammates ended up being memorable only by virtue of having happened in the first place, not by being particularly good or even what he’d consider all that sexy. Not that it was a herculean effort to get off or anything, but there was definitely a sense of sobriety to it. A levelheadedness. Which is to say, Robby’s gut was not tightening dangerously from just kneeling there balls deep in whoever, there was far more fumbling around between positions and bases, and it was not so straightforwardly good that Robby could barely focus on what the hell is happening, his brain skipping around like a badly scratched record.

Christ. If Tyler really told Dylan everything, he already knows that this is not the usual. It’d explain the face he made at nearly coming just a minute ago even after he said he probably wouldn’t. Here lies Robby Fabbri’s final shred of dignity, rest in fucking pieces. He’s—in lust, or some shit. Feeling attraction like a puck to the back of the net. Definitely didn’t get there completely on accident. 

Dylan finally presses his ass back against Robby’s hips, frustrated. Robby grabs his waist on thoughtless instinct. Suddenly it’s like—fucking at the bottom of a hot tub, or having his head wrapped in a hot towel, difficult to breathe in. Muggy as all hell. Robby gives in or gives out, letting his weight drop over Dylan’s back, covering him like a limpet. He bites Dylan’s shoulder, not at all bothered by how sweaty the skin between them is. Dylan’s barely moved since Robby first flattened him to the bed, but his body’s on meltdown mode from it, from just fucking laying there. Dylan’s head drops, hanging, his shoulder blades shifting beneath Robby.

“Robby,” Dylan says. He presses his forehead to his wrist, the side of his face that Robby can see rosy, a little shiny with sweat. “Come on.”

Robby can feel his heartbeat in his stomach. He thrusts forward.

It just feels—good, feels like anything they did would be good, really fucking hot, kind of wishes he had asked Dylan to fuck him instead, or asked Dylan to ride him, though both probably would have made him pass out or come embarrassingly fast, and he realized he has no idea what the hell he’s doing, no idea what he just got himself into—he knew Tyler for years before he slept with him, played on the Blues for nearly ten months before he decided to start fucking those shitheads, so maybe he’s just decreasing the amount of time it takes him to start getting curious exponentially, like some kind of failing business model. And right now the business model is definitely failing.

He bites Dylan’s earlobe. Reaches around, slides a hand across Dylan’s collarbones, up his neck, keeps a hand at his throat to make him keep his head up, pace picking up. He sort of wishes they could still be kissing, but when he rights himself again, the view isn’t half bad. Dylan’s ass is like—Robby wouldn’t know what to tell someone; either they’ve seen it or they haven’t.

Robby’s so close that he starts losing his rhythm, something that he really hates can’t be trained away—so close he hits that point where he will do anything, say anything just to roll forward into an orgasm—hits a place he doesn’t get to too often. Not that he doesn’t usually come, just that it’s usually a zero to sixty kind of deal, not this push and pull that lets him hang at fifty-nine, which is way, way fucking better than a slow ass climb.

Robby reaches around and starts jerking Dylan off, his face pressed to the back of Dylan’s head, brow bone against the curls at the nape of his neck. From the noise Dylan makes and the way his spine bows beneath Robby, it’s not hard to guess that he’s been lingering just shy of the edge for a while now, too. Dylan comes with a low groan, slapping Robby’s hand away, pressing his face into the mattress. Robby only fucks into him for another handful of seconds before he orgasms, feeling Dylan tighten around him. He waits for the haze of sex to fall away, but it doesn’t. He feels like he’s been electrocuted, but also like if he moves, he’ll die.

Dylan strains his neck around, turning to kiss Robby. Robby pulls out, still feeling aftershocks, shuddering, to let him turn over. Dylan’s just shaved, so his face is smooth, and he’s hot as a cast iron skillet. He winds one hand to the back of Robby’s neck, lets the other linger along the side of Robby’s face. Robby’s dick is so sensitive that every time it rubs up against Dylan it makes him want to, like, turtle, and now he’s the idiot that can’t keep up with the make out. When he finally rolls off Dylan, they just lay there for a minute until Robby manages to sit up. He’s thinking he should probably get a wet towel to clean them up when Dylan glances at him inquisitively. Robby stares at him, feelings like his brain’s gone and rotted inside his head, totally useless.

“So, uh,” Dylan says, breathing hard. He wipes a hand down his face, leaves it on his chest right over his heart. “What did you—learn?”

Robby almost laughs. Dylan’s talking like he’s about to get a stat sheet back, or some kind of book report. _ What did you learn. _Fuck all, that’s what. Nothing. 

Robby wasn’t even paying attention. 

**Author's Note:**

> *insert robby's halloween ig post* i know that robby fabbri is unhinged i just know he fucking is!!!!


End file.
